


They're supposed to eat your food and break your heart

by CamilleDuDemon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Character Study, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Lambert (The Witcher), Injury, Vesemir Centric, Vesemir is a Good Father, Witchers have a whole lot of issues, dad vesemir, hurt and attempted comfort, mentions of blaviken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28669755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: It's not easy being the father figure to three grown-up problem childrenORVesemir tries to comfort his pups when they're at their worst.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 71





	They're supposed to eat your food and break your heart

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I don't know what the hell am I doing with this, but...I just wanted to explore Vesemir's dad side, I guess?

He has never dragged his feet while climbing the stairs. For some reason, however, tonight his feet feel heavy, heavy enough that Vesemir can almost sense all of his years falling upon him like an unpleasantly, horrendously rotten blanket being thrown over his shoulders.

He drags his feet across the long hallway, even. When he stops at the last door on the left, he isn’t surprised to find it closed shut.

One long, weary breath. Two, though his lungs have already taken in enough air. Then he knocks, despite not needing to; Eskel must have heard him drag his feet all along, like the ancient, exhausted bag of broken and scratched bones he is.

Yet.

He values Eskel’s privacy above all else, so he does knock, and he patiently waits afterwards.

“Vesemir.”

Eskel doesn’t say _“come in”_ , and Vesemir knows he should be turning around and bid him goodnight instead of swinging the door open, almost timidly, peeking in as if he's afraid that the _boy_ \- yes, compared to him Eskel's still a boy, and in Vesemir's opinion he will always be _his boy_ \- would be startled by his presence or ask him out unceremoniously.

Even in his darkest time, Eskel proves himself to be polite enough not to, though Vesemir can sense that his presence isn't exactly welcomed, wanted -- _needed._

He feels ashamed, suddenly. Guilty. He shouldn't be here, but he is, and so he just strides inside until he's facing Eskel, whose face is as white as the sheets in which he's laying, his mouth twisted in a nasty grimace.

_What's left of his face, at least._

Vesemir inhales sharply through tightly pursed lips. The air smells like herb ointments, alcohol, blood and Swallow. He has lost so much blood Vesemir isn't surprised that he has slept almost a day straight. Normally, he wouldn't be at such a loss of words, yet -- 

His fingers twitch involuntarily.

"I must see to your injury, Eskel. Clean you up, change your bandages…"

Eskel lets out a pained sound, so little and broken it doesn't seem fit for a man like him, all broad shoulders and bulky muscles and sharp teeth. 

_A boy, nothing more than a boy._

"Geralt-", he moans, and for a moment Vesemir doesn't understand if Eskel can't recognize him for whatever reason, or if he's just wailing because he wants geralt to be by his side. It takes another beat to the young, hurt Wolf to fully elaborate. "Geralt already did."

His voice sounds odd, now. Vesemir hopes it's not permanent. The way the vowels and consonants get out of his mouth strictly tied together makes it quite difficult to fully grasp what he's saying.

"Then let me double-check."

He doesn't like the way Eskel goes all stiff and tense when he starts fumbling with the layers of bandages wrapped around his face and head, but he's got to do something anyway.

_Anything, really._

When he finally pulls away the final layer, he can't help but wince at the sight of prematurely scarring tissue disfiguring his boy's face. He can't say how much it hurts for him to see the pain in Eskel's warm, golden eyes, but he must keep his facade put, composed, without getting away any of his thoughts.

"...'M a monster", Eskel stutters, his lips not exactly his to command anymore. Nerve damage is slow to heal, even when it occurs to a witcher. 

Vesemir shakes his head vehemently and says "Don't you even think about such a blatant idiocy, kid" through gritted teeth. The pain that has settled in his chest is almost unbearable and it's threatening to crush him. Especially when Eskel scoffs and slightly pulls away from the gentle fingers probing at his face.

"Enough", he mutters, shaking his head to make his point even more clear. Vesemir's jaw clenches tensely as his touch becomes more firm.

"I've got to apply some ointment. Almost finished."

"I don't want it. Can't fix my face."

Eskel hisses when he speaks. _Can't fissh my fashe._ Vesemir can only hope that this speech impediment isn't permanent, he can only imagine what talking like this will mean to his already taciturn boy. 

"Don't be childish. Allow me to help you."

Eskel grunts and squirms uncomfortably, but Vesemir manages to take care of his wound somehow, smearing some salve here and there, even on his split and still bloody lip. When he's about to dress the nasty injury with some clean bandages, Eskel tugs at his hand - for the tiniest fraction of a second, Vesemir can still picture him as he was when he had just been dragged to Kaer Morhen, taller than any other boy but twice as scared and confused, so scared he even managed to look small and frail among the flock of kids in the courtyard. He used to tug at his hand like that, when he was but a child, he tugged and grabbed, teary blue eyes staring at him, breaking his heart. _Oh, my boy_ , he would like to tell him. Hug him. Provide physical comfort. _They'll tell you you're a monster, but you're not._ _You're not._

Eskel grunts quietly.

"Don't, I'll do this on my own. I don't -- I don't want to keep you from doing your things."

There's something in Eskel's hurt, broken gaze that keeps Vesemir from arguing about that. He just sighs again, his shoulders sagging, before conceding with a small "All right, then". Eskel seems relieved when his mentor pops his ancient joints and goes for the door.

"One more thing, if I may."

The younger witcher nods, wincing when the nasty scar on his face pulls and stings. 

"Yes?"

A tense silence hangs in the room just for a beat. Vesemir has never been good at motivational speeches and shit like that. He clears his throat and fidgets awkwardly with the doorknob.

"Don't exert yourself. If you need something, just ask."

_Please._

Again, Eskel nods. 

When Vesemir leaves his room, he hears him try to choke back an angry, frustrated cry.

He doesn't get back to check on him, though. After all, he respects his boy too much to humiliate him further with his useless fussing.

***

It's well into winter when Geralt finally crosses the main gate, half frozen and delirious with fever.

Only the almighty gods above know how the fuck did _the kid_ manage to survive the mountains, with the passes already blocked by the frequent snowstorms and the biting frost carried by the northern wind.

Vesemir helps Eskel and Lambert take care of him, removing his frozen armor one piece at a time, carefully, tending at the frostbite in his marred hands and feet, gently washing the grime from his pale face and finally letting him sleep his fever off on a makeshift nest of old furs and tattered blankets next to the fire.

Even though he's well aware that Geralt doesn't need it, Vesemir watches over him all night long. Though Eskel would argue that it’s him who should be taking care of Geralt, he seems to understand Vesemir’s need of simply staying by Geralt’s side - it’s no secret that Vesemir has taken care of Geralt since he was but a fragile infant.

The vigil reminds him of all the long and far too cold nights he has spent at the side of his little bed when he was a weak, small child who caught every single winter fever his tiny body would take, shivering and wailing while Vesemir tried to cool his burning forehead off with a ball of fresh snow wrapped up in a cloth. 

Such a child - with small bones and quite a precarious health - was doomed to die during the Grasses, _and yet._

Vesemir prefers not to dwell on the lingering memories of _his_ kid strapped to a wooden table, with tubes forcefully inserted into his veins and steaming alembics pumping mutagens into his system, so he spends the night reading and nursing a couple of mugs of white gull.

He's about to start reading another book - a treatise on metallurgy, he hasn't really paid attention to what he was choosing from the scant library of the great hall - when Geralt stirs, blinking his foggy golden eyes in the dim light cast by the embers still burning in the hearth.

Vesemir watches closely as Geralt frowns, still unable to recognize his surroundings or maybe too exhausted to do so properly, then he clears his throat to make his presence more obvious.

Geralt turns sharply to face him, his sore neck creaking in protest, and then, as a shadow crosses his too hollow face, he mutters a faint "Vesemir".

The old mentor nods.

"Seems like you made it to the keep, kid."

_Kid._

How long has he avoided calling Geralt like that, sticking to the more formal nickname of "Wolf"? He can't help it calling him "kid", now, and his voice holds the familiar tone of the outmost affection in saying so. Geralt lets out a sorrowful wail, though, at being addressed as "kid". Vesemir frowns but doesn't ask just yet: Geralt tends to shy away when asked directly. That's why, instead of pestering him with questions about his recent recklessness - _why has he come back to Kaer Morhen so late? Couldn't he just winter away somewhere safer and then meet his brothers on the Path just to prove them he wasn't dead yet? Why has he deliberately chosen to cross the Blue Mountains with the passes already engulfed in snow? Why has he chosen to risk a horrible death instead of just waiting?_ \- Vesemir goes straight to the kitchens for a pitcher of water and some scraps from the dinner, advising Geralt against fasting in his state.

"You need to recover your strength", he says, shoving a wooden spoon in his hand and half a loaf of bread in the other.

Geralt sighs and eats with no enthusiasm whatsoever, quietly chewing the crusty bread and sipping the thick broth of the hare stew without lifting his gaze from the bowl.

Something has happened while he was on the Path, Vesemir is sure of that.

He thinks that he'll talk, sooner or later. Provided that Lambert doesn't make him lose his temper first…

Vesemir sighs quietly, but Geralt doesn't acknowledge him, poking at the warm stew with his spoon, his gaze lost in the dying embers and a frown twisting the chiseled features of his face.

Geralt's body is surprisingly fast to heal, even for a witcher. The additional mutations have made him more resilient, even to frostbite and other nasty things that would usually cause permanent damage. His hands are fully working in a couple of days, fingers flexing and bending with ease and the ugly, sickly purplish shade under his nails gone for good. Fever has weakened him down a little, though, so Vesemir doesn't ask him to take part in the chores or the morning training. 

Oddly enough, Geralt accepts the offer and spends most of his days locked up in his room, while Eskel sulks quietly and Lambert goes on rambling and guessing. He suspects it's because of a woman, at first, and Vesemir can't disagree on that; it wouldn't be the first time, after all, that Geralt has his heart shattered by a lover. When he was younger, it used to happen more frequently, of course, yet it seems that Geralt hasn't learned how to shield himself from such a mundane pain yet.

As the weeks pass and winter becomes even harsher, however, it gets more and more clear that something quite worse than heartbreak has happened to Geralt.

_A different kind of heartbreak, perhaps._

Eskel tries to ask. Nicely, with his usual gentleness, without inquiring like a town gossip and pressing too hard. He avoids direct questions but, it seems, in vain. On a stormy night, he plops down ungracefully at the dinner table and, resigned, he says "Geralt won't come down for dinner. And he's not talking to me. I suspect something terrible has happened to him while he was on the Path, but he dodges my questions, so…" and he shrugs. For the rest of the night, Eskel is quiet and meditative, while Lambert is back again at his guessing.

Vesemir's patience runs thin extraordinarily fast for his age, and they bicker and snap at each other until Lambert grabs a bottle of vodka and rushes for someplace secluded upstairs.

The tension of the previous week explodes during a particularly bloody sparring session that leaves everyone with more cuts and bruises they'd be prone to admit.

That's it, that's the last straw. Vesemir _must_ know what's happened to Geralt, or else his _kids_ are going to tear each other to pieces before the end of winter.

"Talk to me, kid."

Geralt's unfazed eyes roll. He takes another sip of white gull and he reclines against the bench, sighing heavily.

"What am I supposed to say? Been a rough year…", he slurs, alcohol taking a toll on his tongue. Vesemir shakes his head, sipping on his mead.

"It's more than that."

Geralt chuckles humorlessly, his foot kicking the air in an involuntary spasm.

"Just a rough year, Vesemir. Very rough."

"How rough?"

He watches Geralt pondering on the answer, conflict oddly visible on the twisted features of his face. Vesemir is old, therefore he's patient. He can wait. He'll wait.

"You heard about the Butcher of Blaviken?"

The silence between them has stretched for longer than Vesemir expected, however the older witcher knits his brows, trying to recall if he has ever heard about an alleged Butcher of Blaviken during the season.

"Barely", he answers. "I've involuntarily overheard some fellows talking about the Blaviken incident in a tavern. I thought they were talking shit, honestly. People like to make up stories about our Guild to make us look like beasts, you know this very well, _kid_."

Geralt snorts in his cup, emptying it in a single gulp.

"Except that this one wasn't made up, Vesemir."

The older witcher sighs wearily. He has already understood, even without Geralt admitting out loud that he is the monster who has done all those horrendous things in Blaviken, a real slaughter, a senseless bloodbath.

Maybe not that senseless, though. Geralt -- he's way better than that. More human than he and all of the other children of Kaer Morhen could ever aspire to be. A kid who has always wanted to be a hero, a knight like those of the fairytales, all shining armor and ready to toss himself in a skirmish or a battle to defend those in need, whether they deserve it or not.

"What happened, Geralt?"

Slowly and painstakingly Vesemir manages to have Geralt opening up about the events that have led to the massacre. He can't do anything more than that, though, because any of his attempts at sympathy get promptly rejected.

"Wolf", he tries then. _"Kid-"_

Geralt shakes his head, giving him a painfully broken look with his glossy, fever-bright golden eyes. Vesemir knows he should take the bottle - one of the many bottles - away from him and force him to call it a night and pull himself together but -- he simply can't bring himself to. He has never seen his wolf - his _pup,_ his _kid_ \- in such a state. Even after his additional trials Geralt looked far better than this, more like a living being than the shell of a man he's now.

_At least he looked alive, when he was on the brink of death._

"What's more to say, Vesemir?", he stutters. His breath reeks of vodka and it's almost unbearable for Vesemir to sit this close to him. "Just -- leave me alone. I want to drink alone."

And so Vesemir nods and allows Geralt to lick at the wounds of his soul in peace. Despite what his guts are telling him, he forces himself out of the hall, out of Geralt's sight, carefully keeping his ears open for any sign of distress nonetheless.

Geralt is his kid, after all.

It's Vesemir's duty to take care of him, even now that Geralt is older than most of the common folk in the Continent.

No alarming sounds come from the great hall, though. The clinking of the bottles hitting the floor, however, goes on until dawn.

***

"Shouldn't you still be on the Path?"

Vesemir isn't judging. Nevertheless, it's extremely weird for him to have one of the youngsters to come back to the keep when the leaves on the trees have yet to turn brown and the air is only crisp on the mountains, not ice-cold.

After a couple of failed attempts, Lambert manages to take some uncertain steps towards him and Vesemir realizes that the boy is drunk, extremely drunk, so drunk he's even long past the alcohol poisoning.

He doesn't only reek of weeks worth of rye and vodka, but he also can't walk straight and he slurs even when he's grunting instead of talking.

Which is what he has been doing since his horse has walked him to the main courtyard; he grunts and, occasionally, long sighs escape his sickly dry, pale lips.

Vesemir too sighs, scratching at the rough stubble on his chin while he thinks about what to do now that his _problem child_ is back home. It's going to be extremely difficult to manage him, now that Eskel isn't there to cool down his hot temper and Geralt can't burn out his excess energy with long sparring sessions that leave him exhausted and definitely less prone to start a fight than his usual.

Plus, Lambert is _drunk_ , and he becomes even more unpredictable when he's drunk, so Vesemir must be exceedingly cautious as he prods around the edges just to understand - if that's possible - what's going on with Lambert and why the hell has he drank an entire distillery on his way home.

He starts with a background question, but he's not really expecting Lambert to answer.

"Traveled safe up the mountains, _pup_?"

Still unsteady on his legs, Lambert huffs as he drops his bags on the floor unceremoniously - some vials shatter, Vesemir can hear the loud crash of the glass as soon as the heavy saddlebags hit the dusty floor - and groans loudly while fidgeting with the buckles of his gambeson.

Vesemir helps him unbuckle some fancy, yet totally useless, straps on his back.

"Have you...been sober, recently, Lambert?"

Surprisingly enough, Lambert chuckles and, letting Vesemir help him to a pile of old furs left there the previous winter, he gives him almost an intelligible answer.

"Not in a -- uhhhh -- while", he says, his words followed by a very ungraceful sound with his nose.

Vesemir gives him a scolding look that, fortunately, goes unnoticed. Even a witcher can't live long on alcoholic beverages and, basically, nothing else - judging by how thin Lambert has gone, Vesemir firmly believes that his only form of sustenance these days is rye. Or vodka. Or every other alcoholic drink he can get his hands on.

"You have to eat something", he states, as Lambert struggles to settle on the impromptu nest.

"M'not hungry."

Vesemir purposefully ignores Lambert's opinion on the matter and fetches him some bread and cheese from the kitchen, even helping him find his own mouth when eating unenthusiastically and muttering things under his breath.

When the _pup_ is finally asleep, Vesemir can think of an accommodation. He's not in the mood for arguing or fighting, so -- _what's best for both is not to step on each other's toes too much_.

Nonetheless, he checks on Lambert regularly, and tries to have dinner with him every night, though he _tries_ to leave him alone for the most part of the day. 

He asks him to spar in the courtyard; Lambert is so drunk that even the automatic, always so flawless movements end up being sloppy, imprecise, and the result is that the pup, growing even more frustrated, seeks a warm and welcoming refuge in some more vodka.

In the wake of their tenth day together, Vesemir is so sick of the stench of alcohol permeating the walls of the keep that he tries to confront Lambert directly, no matter how _suicidal_ his purpose can seem. _He has lived a long, fulfilling life, after all,_ he thinks with a completely inappropriate smile, before marching towards Lambert, who has set something on fire in the courtyard and is watching the flames consume it.

Approaching the matter cautiously would be the best strategy with Lambert - or better, not approaching the matter at all would be the safest option.

Alas, Vesemir has run out of patience, and even an ancient relic like him can be rash from time to time.

"Tell me, _pup_ , are you trying to kill yourself?"

His question ends up being far harsher and accusatory than intended, yet Lambert doesn't react for a while. He watches the hypnotic dance of the flames, a bottle of vodka hanging loose from his fingers, and only after a long while he hisses, shaking his head as to wipe away one too many bad thoughts.

"M'not your pup", he spits, not daring to face his old mentor's scrutinizing gaze. When Vesemir tries to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, he shrugs it away with a low snarl.

"Fine, then. You're not my pup, all right."

Silence and the creaking of the flames. A pack of wolves howling in distance. Rats and mice scurrying away down in the lab and in the old pantry. Lambert doesn't say, Vesemir doesn't force him. Not yet.

"Vesemir."

"Yes, Lambert?"

The youngest of his boys speaks as if he's got the fire in his throat and he's barely able to contain it.

"I'm not like Eskel or Geralt. You can't do anything for me."

Vesemir clicks his tongue, then sighs. 

"I know. But you don't have to carry every burden all alone."

Lambert chuckles bitterly, humorlessly.

"Believe me. This one I have to", he says, matter-of-factly, his eyes empty and cold as he finally looks up at him -- he looks both impossibly young and impossibly old for his own age. Or just impossibly drunk, which would be the less poetic but nevertheless the most accurate way to describe his current state.

“And you’re doing perfectly fine, aren’t you? Poisoning yourself every hour of the day lik a-”

“Come on, old man, you’re in no position to lecture me. Not anymore. Don’t you have anything more important to do, like fixing holes or stirring some mortar?”

“No, not now, no.”

Lambert clenches his jaw, suppressing a groan. A long silence passes between them -- it looks like their strained relationship over the years has been built on silences rather than words or raw affection.

“I asked you if you’re trying to die, Lambert”, Vesemir begins, keeping his hands and his physical affection strictly tucked away. Lambert rubs at the rough gravel of the courtyard with the tip of his boot like a nervous stallion, taking another sip of vodka just to spit it on the embers and revive the fire.

“No I’m -- I’m not.”

Vesemir is immensely relieved by Lambert’s muttered words. He’s chewing on something else, he just needs the right push. For how much Lambert can be difficult _\- the most difficult pup of his litter -_ and distrustful and prickly, there’s something he must take off his chest, and that’s so plain that even a rock troll could tell, even if it lacks in brains and spirit of observation.

“Then what. What are you trying to do?”

The younger witcher shakes his head, groans, spits to the ground, paces back and forth like a restless, caged wolf that’s about to snap and then-

_And then-_

He puts out the fire with a surprisingly controlled Aard, revealing the miserable remains of what it seems like a bowl, or something that Vesemir can’t recognize. It doesn’t come from the kitchens in Kaer Morhen for sure, it’s far too fine - even if it has almost burnt down completely - for the keep, and for what it seems almost unused.

“This was my mother’s.”, Lambert whispers with a wince, fidgeting with the bottle in his hand. “I snatched it when I went...when...when I went to the farm.”

Vesemir holds his breath inside his thinly pursed lips. He’d very much like to swear, but he doesn’t want to spoil one of the few moments of apparent truce between him and his _problem child._

“You went to the farm”, he echoes, trying to sound as neutral as possible. When Lambert nods, slightly ashamed, Vesemir asks “When?”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. In spring, maybe. And the house was...still...the same.”

“And what about-”

_Ah, yeah, the elephant in the room._

_Lambert’s abusive, alcoholic piece of shit of a father._

“He was...alive. Despite...everything, he was still fucking breathing.”

Vesemir can already sense the implication behind Lambert’s words, so much he wouldn’t dare to ask, if he didn’t know it was, ultimately, the right thing to do. For how much he abhors senseless bloodshed, he would have done the same.

“You killed him.”

Not a question but a statement. Lambert takes a sip of his vodka and nods.

“I have no one, now, Vesemir. Mother’s gone. A woman told me she died soon after you took me.”

“Did she recognize you?”

Lambert lets out a dry chuckle.

“How could she? I was...what, eleven? -- I was just a kid when you took me, Vesemir. I had to make up a story. Apparently, she was the town gossip, and I didn’t have to do much to convince her.”

“I’m sorry for your mother, Lambert. Sincerely.”

Lambert isn’t one for resignation and quiet self-pity. The rage, the hatred towards the witchers, towards Vesemir, towards everyone burns behind his irises. Suddenly he’s back to his usual snarky self, as if he deeply regretted opening up to the very man who’s responsible for having turned him into a monster, a mutant, an outcast.

“No, you’re not. And now, if you’d quit pestering me...”

An experienced warrior knows when to yield, and Vesemir surely is very experienced in that. He nods his head and, curtly, he says “I’ll leave you to your matters, now, but you won’t drink anything tomorrow, all right? I’ll need your help. And you could use some real training, your footwork is getting sloppy.”

Lambert doesen’t answer.

 _Not that Vesemir was waiting for an answer anyway._

  
  
  
  



End file.
